


We are the Monsters

by Evandar



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adultery, Angst and Porn, Antagonism, Don't copy to another site, Knotting, M/M, Rough Sex, Werewolf Bill Weasley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-15
Updated: 2019-08-15
Packaged: 2020-09-01 18:48:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20262811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evandar/pseuds/Evandar
Summary: A werewolf and a Death Eater walk into a bar.





	We are the Monsters

**Author's Note:**

> Based on prompt S8 at the HP_CrossGen minifest. The prompt was: "Rodolphus Lestrange/Bill Weasley - Drinking away their problems in a pub, starts out as an argument, turns into a make-out session or more." 
> 
> Unfortunately, I suck at writing hate-sex so Bill now sucks at having it. Also, rare-pairs are life and I should probably apologise at some point for inflicting my (very random) Lestranges-are-close-relatives-of-the-Potters headcanon on the world.

It takes him a moment to recognise Rodolphus Lestrange by the bar. The Death Eater is sat in the far corner, swathed in dark robes and sitting alone. He’s nursing a glass of Firewhiskey, tracing his thumb through the drops of condensation clinging to the side. 

On any other night, Bill would have left. He would have turned around and slipped away before he could be noticed. But outside there’s a waxing gibbous moon that’s painting the cobbled streets in silver, and even without it singing to his blood, Bill has had quite enough of being at home. He grits his teeth, shoves away thoughts of Fleur’s abandonment and of his mother’s endless fussing, and he makes his way to the bar. 

He has claws and fangs now, and scars that have ruined him.

Lestrange doesn’t look up as Bill orders his drink. His wild black hair falls over his eyes, salted through with streaks of silver; his gaze remains fixed on his glass and on the runes he traces on its side. He’s less mad-looking than the picture on his wanted poster, more filled out. He looks healthier than he should and Bill hates him for it. He taps his claws against the counter as he waits for his drink, keeping them occupied so that he doesn’t reach out and claw Lestrange’s face off. 

He doesn’t know if Lestrange was there when his life ended, if he’d been there the night his wife and Greyback attacked Hogwarts. It was the night Bill lost his fiancée, his future, and his humanity in one fell swoop. So much of it’s a blur that he doesn’t remember, even though he feels as though he should. The important thing is the Dark Mark on Lestrange’s arm and the terrible things that Bill _knows_ he’s done; the things he knows he’s capable of doing. 

He’s a monster. But Bill is a monster too, now. One more than capable of doing equally terrible things. 

The sickles sting his fingers when he hands them over. At his side, Lestrange shifts. He hums softly under his breath, something almost like a chuckle. 

The growl rumbles out of Bill’s chest before he can suppress it. “Something funny, Death Eater?” he snarls. 

Lestrange looks up at him properly for the first time. His eyes are dark and they glint in the low light. His smile is familiar in a way that raises Bill’s hackles further - though that might also be because of the way it widens, baring teeth. 

“Not anymore, blood-traitor,” he says. His voice is a low drawl, and there’s just enough of a hint of a French accent around his r’s that Bill feels his temper fray further. 

Fleur hadn’t cared about the scars: she’d been beautiful enough for the both of them. In the end, she’d cared a lot more about the loss of his job, and about the transformations when they came - the price of Wolfsbane beyond the means of a single-wage income. He can’t blame her for it, except he does. He does and he hates himself for it, hates Greyback, hates Voldemort. He hates so _much_ these days, and he hates that too. 

He clenches his fist, scraping his claws against the wood of the bar. It would be so easy to claw gouges into it, to tear Lestrange apart, but he holds back. He can’t afford to replace the bar, no matter how dismal the pub is - and he can feel the bartender watching him, watching them both as if they’re an equal threat. 

He feels powerful as much as he feels insulted. 

“A Weasley,” Lestrange murmurs. “You’re on the Dark Lord’s list.”

Bill has no idea what list that is, but he’s under no illusions that it’s a pleasant one. He growls again, the implied threat from such a bizarrely familiar mouth making the moonlight in his blood fizz. 

“Going to hand me in, then?” he asks. “Be a good little bitch for your Master?”

Lestrange’s smile widens, flashing the points of his canine teeth. He has to know what he’s doing - he has to. He’s so absorbed in the Dark Arts, he has connections to werewolves, he _has_ to know...

It occurs to Bill, then, that Lestrange is a madman capable of torturing someone into insanity - and that had been before Azkaban. He’s probably three times as insane now than he was then. He is, out of all the people in the world, the last one that Bill should want to engage in a fight - he’s also perfect for it. 

But instead of drawing his wand, Lestrange just rolls his eyes. “Why don’t you sit down like a good little doggie and stop mistaking me for my wife, hmm?” he says, superiority dripping from each syllable. 

Bill’s hand shakes as he raises his glass to his lips. He doesn’t taste the whiskey. He can only taste the blood in his mouth and feel the sting on his tongue as the alcohol hits the gashes left by his fangs. 

Lestrange makes that strange, humming chuckle again. “Good boy,” he says. 

Bill moves. He doesn’t even realise that he’s done it until Lestrange is slammed up against the wall, Bill’s hand twisted in the front of his robes. Lestrange leers up at him, a mad light in his eyes, and Bill feels the top of a wand press into his belly. 

He wonders if he can tear Lestrange’s throat out before the man can cast an Unforgivable. He looks down into that dark gaze and the rational part of him doesn’t like his chances; the wolf - too close to the surface - wants to taste Lestrange’s blood instead of his own. He can hear the bartender protesting behind him. The man sounds terrified, and Bill - 

He didn’t used to be like this.

His grip loosens. Lestrange, in turn, stops pressing his wand quite so hard into Bill’s stomach. He’ll have left a bruise, but the one good part of being a werewolf is that it’ll be gone in a couple of hours. 

Bill can feel himself shaking. He finds himself hoping that Lestrange can’t feel it, even though the man clearly can - there’s an odd, sympathetic look on his face. It deepens the lines around his eyes, making him look older - old enough for Bill to remember that he was just a kid when Lestrange was locked up. He’s nothing but a puffed-up brat compared to this lunatic; a kid unable to control his animal side and the darkness that it infected him with. 

“Want to know why I was laughing, Weasley?” Lestrange asks. “I was thinking how typical it was, that someone I’m supposed to be watching for my Lord would come and stand next to me on the one night that I wanted to forget the Mark on my arm.”

Bill can’t help it. He huffs a soft laugh all of his own, and he lets his fingers uncurl, releasing Lestrange completely. The man eases down, and it’s startling just how short he is. He only comes up to Bill’s shoulder. 

“Why try to forget?” he asks. 

Lestrange’s expression is, for a split second, incredulous. It slides back into that taunting smile quickly enough, but for a moment, something far more human is there - and that moment was just long enough to make Bill feel like a complete moron. 

“Right,” he says. “Fair enough.”

That strange, humming laugh again. “And what of you? This is hardly the place for one of Potter’s...friends?”

Bill shrugs. “They don’t kick out werewolves,” he replies, and honestly, that’s enough these days. He’s had to lower his standards exponentially. 

Speaking of standards...

Lestrange is watching him, looking up at him through surprisingly long lashes. That familiar smile is back, twisting up the corner of his mouth. Bill feels his stomach flip: he hasn’t been looked at like this since before the attack on Hogwarts, since before Greyback turned him. People see the scars and look away from him; they avoid eye-contact, they don’t touch him. Lestrange is doing none of that. He’s looking up at Bill like he wants to be manhandled all the way into one of the seedy private rooms this place charges through the nose for. 

Bill licks his lips. Lestrange tracks the movement, and Bill watches as his pupils blow wide. 

He grabs at the front of Lestrange’s robes again, claws catching in the fabric as he shoves Lestrange back against the wall for a second time. There’s a dull thud as Lestrange’s skull impacts with the plaster, and Lestrange hums his little laugh again. He arches up into Bill’s grasp, rising onto his tip-toes as Bill tightens his hold. 

_Fuck_, Bill thinks. 

...

He’s barely aware of how they ended up on a bed. He knows that money has to have changed hands, and he knows that it probably wasn’t his. He knows that the bed beneath them creaks dangerously with every thrust, and that Lestrange is just as quiet when he’s getting fucked as he is when he’s laughing. Lestrange gasps with every forward snap of Bill’s hips. He makes soft, bitten-off noises every time Bill finds his prostate. He’d whined and hissed “fuck, please” when Bill slashed his claws over the Mark on his arm and left gouges in his hips and thighs. 

He’s watching Bill now, over his shoulder. Tears are caught in his long eyelashes, his face is flushed, and there’s blood beading at the corner of his mouth where he’s bitten through his lip. 

He’s _glorious_. Wet with conjured lube and burning-tight. Bill fucks him hard and fast; he can feel the base of his cock beginning to swell with his knot, and he wants Lestrange to take it. He’s taken everything else. He leans down, plastering himself to Lestrange’s back, lapping at the sweat glittering between his shoulder blades as he works his cock deeper, pressing the beginnings of his knot past Lestrange’s rim. 

He hears Lestrange’s breath hitch; feels his toes curls where they’re pressed next to his knee. Lestrange whines, pushing back onto him, and there’s a soft hiss of “yes” that Bill would have missed if his hearing was any less sensitive. 

He grins into Lestrange’s hair. The older man _is_ a bitch, whatever his earlier protests. He pulls out, feeling resistance as his knot works at Lestrange’s rim; shoves back in, hard, relishing the choked gasp. He keeps going, keeps fucking Lestrange with his knot until it’s swelled so much that he can’t pull out. He works his hips, then. Grinding deep into Lestrange’s arse, relishing the tight heat and the plaintive mewls it wins him. 

He scratches his fangs down Lestrange’s spine as he slides his hand around the man’s prick, grazing tender flesh with the tips of his claws before he starts to stroke. Lestrange makes a broken sound at the threat, the stimulation, and Bill nips gently at the back of his neck. 

He won’t bite. No matter what the urge is, he won’t turn anyone else. There’s still enough of _himself_ left to prevent it. 

Besides, Lestrange is dangerous enough already. 

Lestrange is silent when he comes, shuddering as he exhales and spills over Bill’s hand and the rickety bed beneath them. His arse clenches, impossibly tight, and Bill snarls. He grinds harder, bucking into that incredible heat, and he growls low as he climaxes. 

There’s so _much_. Fair enough, it’s been a while, but Bill suspects that it’s a werewolf thing that he hadn’t known about (one of many things he hadn’t known). He comes and comes, and beneath him Lestrange gasps and shifts, scrabbling at the sheets and turning his face into the pillow. He’s over-sensitive, sore. Bill hasn’t been kind to him; Lestrange isn’t deserving of kindness. _But_. He’s been such a _good_ bitch, taking his knot and his come and his claws. 

Still locked inside of him, Bill presses a kiss to the back of Lestrange’s neck. Lestrange hums again, and while he doesn’t lean into the gentler touch, he doesn’t pull away from it either. 

...

Two nights later, Bill pauses in his rage. He stops mauling himself; stops tearing at his fur and tail, and lifts his head. He follows his nose to a new scent, one that emanates from a high-up window that he cannot reach. A crow perches above him. It smells of bird and carrion and, underneath it all, human. It carries a stranger’s scent mixed with his own, mingled in a way that brings back memories of a creaking bed and pale skin streaked with blood. 

Bill’s ears flatten and his lips draw back, revealing fangs as the crow studies him. It rustles it’s wings and makes a low churring noise in greeting, its movements sending a stray feather to the floor, and it settles comfortably on its perch. Bill sits beneath it, waiting for clarity that won’t come. 

They might both be monsters, but he will never understand Lestrange.


End file.
